


Coming Back Around

by kindlystrawberry



Category: Rune Factory 4
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Bickering, Blossom but only mentioned, Cowboy Doug, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fever, Flashbacks, Horses, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Swearing, Yearning, also the verb tenses nearly destroyed me but whatever, gratuitous use of contractions, listen yall you gotta let me live with this AU, obnoxious use of cowboy related metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindlystrawberry/pseuds/kindlystrawberry
Summary: Weary from a long journey on his horse, Doug stumbles upon a ranch, where he offers to fix things up in exchange for some food and shelter. He expects to stay for a few days, a few weeks max, before he hits the road again. He doesn't expect this place and its inhabitants, particularly one tall, easy-to-anger farmhand, to start to feel like home.
Relationships: Doug/Dylas (Rune Factory)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	Coming Back Around

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [this text post](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/764004373088698398/788097505069105152/image0.png). A huge thank you to the discord for RF fic writers for inspiring, motivating, and helping me with this fic, you guys are absolutely awesome. A particular thank you to Spinch, Quinn, and Sketch for helping me with major plot points in this, and another thank you to Quinn for coming up with the title! Enjoy!!

The constant falling of fat, heavy raindrops against Doug’s skin is a welcome reprieve to the burning warmth radiating from his skin. Despite all his exploring, that’s one thing he never got used to about this country; the air is so thick and heavy, but not from living close to the sea like back home. No, it’s as if this place is charged with something, always ready to let loose a total storm at any given moment. Tonight, with the sticky late summer air gathering down his jaw and chin like dewdrops, is no different. 

Well, maybe a little different.

It takes everything in Doug to manage to stay upright on his mare as her footsteps sway beneath him, rocking him back and forth. The thick shadows that come from the new moon’s lack of lighting doesn’t help him in any way, though honestly his vision’s already too hazy for it to matter much, lighting or not. 

_Almost there, almost there, almost…_

Doug repeats this mantra to himself, using it like a torch in the fog, and at the very least it keeps him conscious. Mostly. 

Vague memories come back to him, willing him awake, willing him to keep going, images of long lavender hair, of lithe arms and pale skin, of freckles that look like seeds scattered out against the dirt. That mean face, that soft smile, that scar that cuts up the length of that man’s cheek like the husk of a tree left bare by lightning…

Doug thinks of it, thinks of it all, and those memories act as an anchor, tethering him to reality as his horse slowly pulls up to the ranch in the distance.

* * *

Doug remembers the first time he stumbled onto the ranch. The first time he met _that man._

It was over two years ago, in the peak of summer. The weather was slowly turning hotter and hotter, and after miles of nothing but open road, his mare beneath him and the stifling sun above him, he was instantly relieved to see the beginnings of a ranch sprawl out in front of him.

The road to actually get to the front gate of the ranch was _long_ , but Doug willed himself to be patient, even though that’s… something he’d never actually been good at. Along the way he played a game of counting every hole and crack that he could see along the fence.

That’s how he got the idea to offer up his labor, fixing up the fence and whatever other odd jobs they could find in exchange for some food and a place to stay, just until the weather got a bit less harsh and his horse could rest up from her difficult journey.

The man who ran the farm had looked Doug up and down (at his scruffy clothing from long weeks of travel, at his slightly pointed ears, at the hat held politely in his hands because dammit, sure Doug’s an orphan now and a bit of a hothead, but he was raised with _some_ manners at least) with far more sympathy than Doug was comfortable with. Doug wasn’t used to seeing that. Not in these parts.

But the man was kind and boisterous and _generous,_ way too generous, enough that Doug had the series of thoughts: _I could rob this guy so easily,_ and then, _I don’t think I could ever look myself in the eye if I did, though, dammit._

So he— Porcoline, who Doug later learned got a farm to get the freshest ingredients available for his restaurant— had brought Doug in, showed him to a small cottage somewhere on the property with a humble bed, a closet full of tools, and running water, and told him to rest up for the night. He had said he’d send his son over with dinner and to show Doug where to stow his horse. Doug could start repairing things in the morning.

Doug made slow work of shrugging off his outer layers, laying the sun-bleached fabric over the nearest chair and taking off his boots to let his socks breathe. He poured a glass of water, inspected the tools they were given— Doug wasn’t the handiest person, but even “only kinda handy” in his home village was a lot handier in the standards of people not from his culture, apparently— and generally ambled about the small cottage. It was only one room but it had everything he’d need. 

Soon enough there was a knock on the door, drawing him out of his thoughts.

“Coming,” Doug called out, drinking the last of his water before crossing a few steps over to the door.

“Ah, shit— watch it!” The stranger’s voice was low-pitched and… angry.

“Oh.” Doug blinked, taking in the sight of the man holding a large, slender hand up to his face. His other hand was cradling a box against his chest. “Ah crap— sorry, I didn’t think you’d be standing so close to the door.”

“I didn’t think you’d be opening it so damn quick,” the stranger shot back, his voice more than a little irritated.

Doug had to fight the urge to rake his fingers through his hair. He took a breath, willing himself to be patient. “Want me to find something cold to put on it?”

“‘S fine. Not that serious anyway, just caught me off guard.” The stranger dropped his hand to rest it on his hip, glancing around the interior of the room like he was making sure Doug hadn’t messed anything up yet. Then his gaze landed on Doug.

Oh. Doug could see his face properly then: long and thin, with scar up his left cheek and an angry set to his brow, and, oh wait maybe that’s the glaring. Doug couldn’t actually tell if the man was glaring at him in particular or if he was just always like that, but he decided to shove his hands into his pockets and keep a serious look on his own face. Maybe it’s the long journey to get here, but something about this guy was pissing him off. Maybe it’s how unfairly tall he is, almost needing to duck under the doorway that Doug fit through without a second thought.

The man just kept on staring at Doug, and when i was clear he wasn’t actually going to say anything despite him being the one to come _here_ to do something, Doug spoke up.

“I’m Doug, by the way.”

“Yeah,” was the man’s gruff response. “Porcoline said.”

Another pause.

“Right, soooo…” 

“Oh. Dylas. Porco wanted me to show y’the stables, and give you this.” He— Dylas— set down the box on the nearest table. Doug couldn’t help but eye it warrily until Dylas rolled his eyes and pulled out a bowl from inside. It was a steaming plate of some kind of soup. Mushroom?

Food. Oh hell yeah.

“Hey, thanks!” Doug said with a grin.

Dylas’ face twitched and he just scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. Very friendly guy, that one.

Despite the fact that Doug’s stomach growled at the thought of an actual home-cooked meal, Dylas was already turning out the door again before Doug had a chance to go looking for silverware and dig in.

“Stables are this way,” Dylas called

“What about the food?” 

Dylas stopped in the doorway again, foot tapping as he looked back at Doug. “‘S what the box is for. Keep it warm.” 

Doug shrugged, thinking fine enough, and was finding his jacket to put on again (more for comfort than weather) when Dylas added, with a smug smile that Doug didn’t need to see to _hear_ , “and keep me from spilling it over myself, apparently.”

Doug groaned as he followed Dylas out the door. 

The expanse of the field spread out before them. Long rows of crops were in the distance to their right, and to the left was a stable and a barn. Individual blades of grass seemed to glow in the moonlight, but the nice sight didn’t stop Doug from glaring up at his unfriendly companion.

“Who stands that close to a door when they know it swings out?”

“Who opens a door so damn fast?”

Doug rolled his eyes, deciding he’s too tired to not be the bigger person here, and pointed at the back of the cottage. “My horse’s over there. I tied her to one of the back porch beams.”

Dylas nodded, briskly making his way back there and making Doug have to jog to catch back up to him. Damn those long legs. 

It took Doug a second to untie the knot he had made earlier, his cramping hands and the low-lighting making it a tedious task. 

Dylas didn’t seem to mind, standing by the mare and observing her carefully. Doug had the thought to turn around and tell the man to be careful, but he figured Dylas was rude enough to him that he didn’t need to be warned; let the guy figure out for himself that Doug’s companion wasn’t the friendliest.

To Doug’s surprise, though, when he did manage to finish undoing the knot and finally turn around, Dylas was stroking her mane softly, a kind smile on his lips. Doug’s traitorous horse looked like the _embodiment_ of relaxation in that moment, and Doug all but gaped as he came closer.

“She’s not usually this nice. Not that she’s a bad horse,” Doug added quickly, “but I’ve never seen her take well to a stranger.”

Dylas shrugged and turned around, clearly intending for Doug to follow. “I’ve always been pretty good with horses. Part of why Porcoline asks me to help out with them so much.”

The walk to the stable was a surprisingly pleasant one, with not much said between them. Once they were inside Dylas pointed to a free stall and checked to make sure there was plenty of hay and water for her.

“Got a brush?” Doug asked. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to groom her.”

“Yeah. Just a sec.” Dylas disappeared back into the main part of the stable and then came back with a brush, handing it over. The man’s presence was looming. Doug wasn’t easily intimidated— that wasn’t it; he wasn’t sure what it was, and he didn’t want to place it, to be honest.

The guy pissed him off.

Doug decided to just turn around and focus on brushing out his horse’s deep black mane. 

Still, the weight of the man’s eyes stayed on Doug as he brushed. At one point he glanced over his shoulder to see Dylas leaned back against one of the walls, arms crossed and just watching. Doug realized that the whole glaring thing probably _was_ a resting face, since he looked pretty serious now but not necessarily angry.

“What’s her name?” Dylas suddenly piped up, tone gentler than Doug had yet heard it.

“Uh.” Shit. “Don’t worry about it?” was all Doug could think to respond.

“What?” The softness in his voice gone, Dylas’ tone came out sharp. “The fuck does that mean? Does she have a name or not?”

Crap. Ugh. Doug hated this conversation.

“I’ve had her for a while, ‘course I’ve named her. But just, like,” he made a vague motion with his hand, waving the brush around the air, and then went back to dutifully untangling her mane, “don’t worry about it?”

Doug glanced over again to see Dylas’ expression. Oof. Yeah. _That’s_ a glare for sure, somewhere between _‘what the fuck is wrong with you’_ and _‘what does that even mean?’_

Doug sighed, dropping his head. “It’s an embarrassing name, alright? Came up with it when I was like 8, and by the time I got her I like, dunno, had to live up to calling her that since I’d made such a fuss about it to my parents.”

He’d always wanted a horse, wanted to go exploring different countries around the world. He’d had that wish now, at least, but only by having years of no place to actually call home anymore.

Doesn’t mean he had gotten used to people always asking this question though. Honestly Doug should have just started lying about a different name for her, but it felt dishonest somehow— both to his parents’ memories _and_ the horse.

“Thunderbolt,” Doug answered at length, when Dylas wouldn’t stop staring at him. “Her name’s Nessie Earthquake Thunderbolt.” Thunderbolt let out a neigh in response, like she agreed, confirming that she _was,_ in fact, a traitor. “She prefers just being called by the last part, though,” he adds.

There was a short patch of silence before Dylas burst out laughing, the sound warm, loud, and full. In his shock all Doug could do was turn around and stare at the man—who was just barely not a stranger anymore— as Dylas held up a hand to try and stifle the sound; his shoulders were shaking, though, and his chest was heaving, and Doug couldn’t help but feel like that expression looked damn good on his face.

* * *

When Doug comes back to himself, shaken loose from his memories like coins from a piggy bank, he’s not entirely sure what’s happening to him. 

He feels water falling off of him in long, heavy sheets; a sturdy surface underneath him, but otherwise weightless, like he’s being carried, maybe; something like fabric, soft and warmer than he’s known in a while.  
There’s a scent wafting through, well , _wherever he is,_ and it’s filling up his senses until it's the only thing he can focus on, achingly familiar in a way he didn’t think anything ever would be again. 

Then there’s voices, somewhere between hushed, worried, calming. A low murmur that he thinks maybe he should recognize, except Doug can barely recognize where his own two hands are, can’t even _open his eyes,_ much less do anything else.

Above everything else he feels warmth, though. Not necessarily the friendly welcoming kind but like he’s being burnt alive from the inside out, every travel-weary muscle melting away under its scorching blaze.

And then Doug feels nothing, except the way his dreams slip into more memories.

* * *

The days he worked on Porcoline’s ranch had been long but not unpleasant. The way the sun beat down on Doug as he worked on fixing up things honestly wasn’t all that different from being on horseback, and doing something productive with his hands honestly felt good. On top of that, Porcoline’s cooking was _damn_ good— the quickest way to Doug’s heart— and he was pleasant company, too. 

They’d share meals together almost any time whenever Porcoline wasn’t working at his restaurant, but even when the chef wasn’t home there were people from the nearby village coming in and out of the property. Doug never went a full day without sharing at least _one_ meal with someone. That feeling was new to him, and so was the eccentric company; a pair of doctors who always made friendly, if slightly gushy, conversation; a bunch of people around his age, who were rowdy and impossibly friendly; and most of all, a sweet older woman named Blossom who he got along with instantly. Doug would often find himself fixing stuff up for her, too, around her house and store— only because he wanted to, of course, and because he couldn’t find it in him to say no to her.

Dylas apparently also worked shifts at the restaurant, though comparatively less since he mainly handled the horses and livestock. A musician and a trader also lived on the property regularly, but it seemed like everyone from the town came around regularly each week, either to chat or trade or check up on something.

It had been so long since Doug had seen an actual, full-blown community like that. Most of his experiences were him being alone with Thunderbolt, and the exception was spending time in a random village for a few weeks _maximum_ before he had what he needed and left.

At Porcoline’s ranch, though, it just felt so… natural. 

Part of him hated the feeling of that comfort. It itched at his skin, made it crawl in discomfort, and sometimes Doug would wake up from a nightmare and go out back to puke in the grass. He felt like an imposter; it’s as if he was betraying his family, somehow, betraying his home town by finding this new place, where his accent was unique and his mannerisms were foreign. 

He knew, objectively, that his family and friends would have wanted him to ‘move on’ or whatever. He just never thought he would have— and if he did, he didn’t think it’d be this damn easy to settle in somewhere else.

So he refused to let himself. Reminded himself that this was all temporary.

Another part of Doug, though, the part that was always just trying to live in the moment, went with it. He shared his meals, went into town, fixed the stables, the barns, made those fences look brand new.

And Dylas…

Dylas, the grumpy looking farmhand who Doug had quickly learned was Porcoline’s adoptive son, was still grumpy. But even _that_ was easy, in the bickering kind of relationship he and Doug had settled into. 

About three weeks after Doug had first arrived, there was a bright day in the afternoon where he walked out onto one of the large batches of grass on the property, between Dylas and a horse.

“Alright.” Doug came to a stop when he figured they were far enough into the open area. “I’m gonna teach you how to ride a horse.” 

Dylas shot him a glare, but Doug thought he could see curiosity flickering behind those annoyed yellow eyes.

“I know how to ride a horse.”

Doug grinned. “Not _well._ Walking around a property and giving them some exercise’s fine and all, but don’t you wanna learn how to go fast?”

Oh yeah. He’s pretty sure there’s curiosity there, and he watched as Dylas thought it over, foot tapping against the grass.

“Yeah, alright. But it can’t take long, gotta get to the restaurant for the dinner shift.” 

“Oh, that’s easy!” Doug was making sure all the riding gear was put on the horse properly as he asked, “We’ll just ride’ over there at the end of the lesson. What’s this guy’s name?”

“Calcifer.”

“Alright,” Doug said with a grin, patting the horse’s neck now that he was done checking. “Calcy it is. I’m assuming you know how to mount?”

Dylas rolled his eyes in an _of course I do, idiot,_ kind of way before shrugging past Doug to put his foot in the stirrup and swing up over Calcifer; he did so with surprising grace. Doug tried not to focus too much on how damn _long_ Dylas’ legs looked.

“Right, well.” Doug rubbed his hands against his pants, forcibly dispelling his own thoughts. “Show me what y’know, so I know what not to bother spending time on.”

Dylas mumbled something along the lines of “Alright,” before leading the horse into a simple trot around the field, stopping and starting a few times while showing off his turns. By the time he pulled back up in front of Doug, he had a pretty good sense of what Dylas did and didn’t already know.

“Alright, scooch over.”

“What?” Dylas looked down at Doug with a bewildered stare.

 _“What?_ If we’re going fast we’re gonna go far too, and it’s a lot easier to teach you if I’m up there with you. Now…” Doug tried to fight off the sheepishness that suddenly washed over him by bulldozing his words forward, “don’t be a hog and scooch.”

With one last eye roll for good measure Dylas cleared his breath and moved his feet from the stirrup. In a few seconds Doug climbed up onto the horse, easily seating himself behind Dylas, who moved forward to accommodate.

Suddenly Doug realized the problem with this.

“Wait, shit. We gotta switch. I can’t see anything like this.”

Dylas’ shoulder swam in his field of vision, shaking up and down— was he trying to hold back laughter? 

“It’s not my fault you're short.”

“I’m—!” Doug took a deep, fortifying breath. “Shut up and move,” he muttered as he climbed down and back up again, this time sitting in front of Dylas. 

Actually, this might be worse. Sure, Doug could actually see now, but he had the long, steady frame of Dylas just behind him, hovered over his head and breathing down his neck. And then Dylas moved so that his arms bracketed Doug, grabbing Calcifer’s reins. The man wore a simple long sleeve shirt, whose fabric pooled around his wrists. And when the wind moved a certain way, the thin fabric would _just_ ghost over Doug’s arms, making him fight off a shiver at the gentle contact.

Shit.

“What next?” Dylas’ low voice drew Doug out of his (self-destructive, terrible idea, hard No) thoughts.

Doug cleared his throat. “Right. So first y’want to…”

As easy as Doug always felt when riding a horse, delving into an explanation melted away his nerves too. He started giving Dylas tips on how to ride faster, how to make sure your horse trusted you— the right way to sit, to move your arms, to pull on the reins. In about an hour they had picked up enough that Doug encouraged Dylas to guide Calcifer to jump the fence, sending them arcing through the sky over the boundaries of the ranch’s property.

“Yes!” Doug cheered when Dylas stuck the landing. Calcifer slowed into a canter as they continued on their way through the open dirt road. “Good job, man,” Doug shot a grin up and over his shoulder, and just managed to see what he thought was a blush staining Dylas’ cheeks.

“Uh, yeah. Th-thanks.” Dylas adjusted his grip on the reins. He cleared his throat, and Doug tried not to focus on the way the motion of cantering made them press into each other. 

Doug tugged at the top button of his simple leather vest, willing the stifling heat to go away. “So, to the restaurant?”

* * *

_“Craaap.”_ Doug wakes up with a loud groan, turning over and wrapping himself up in more bedsheets like they might shield him from the sledgehammer trying to pry open his skull, or the cement that’s clogging up his sinuses.

He hears something that sounds like a huff, and squints up to see a blurry but unmistakable figure sitting on a chair next to Doug’s bedside.

The figure— _Dylas—_ turns away to start fidgeting with something on the ground that Doug can’t see. 

After a few moments of nothing happening, Doug, between his chattering teeth, adds “I’m _cold_. Can’t you start up the fireplace or something?”

At that Dylas turns, pushing back some of the sheets cocooned around Doug to press the back of his hand to Doug’s forehead. He holds his hand there for a few moments, and Doug feels relieved that his blush can hide under the already-feverish warmth of his skin, the one that’s at odds with the bone deep coldness underneath. He tries not to focus on the feeling of Dylas’ knuckles, of the patches of rough skin from calluses and scars, and he all but startles when Dylas removes his hand to speak up, exasperatedly. 

“Doug. Your temperature’s ridiculously high. If I get the fireplace going you’ll sweat your fucking clothes off.”

“Heh.” Maybe it’s the fever, but Doug feels like his mental filter even less functionable than normal. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Dylas lets out a noise somewhere between annoyance and embarrassment, and goes back to fidgeting with something at his feet, which makes a splashing sound. When Doug’s about to open his mouth again, the other man cuts him off by plopping a freezing cold towel on his forehead.

“Aghhh,” he groans, “give a guy some damn warning first, huh?”

Dylas scoffs, adjusting the towel a bit by pushing away some of Doug’s hair from his forehead.

Despite the surprisingly tender administrations, Doug squints suspiciously at Dylas. “What was that?”

“What?” Dylas shoots back, eloquent as ever.

“That scoff. That was definitely a pointed scoff.”

“It was not.”

“Yeah it was!” Doug raises a trembling hand from underneath his protective layer of bedsheets, thrusting a finger in Dylas’ general (still blurry) direction. Doug’s eyes go cross-eyed as he suddenly focuses on the bead of sweat dripping down his wrist, but he’s drawn out of his distraction again by the sound of Dylas leaning back harshly in his chair. Glancing up, he sees Dylas’ arms crossed over his chest, his face turned to glare at the wall behind Doug’s head.

“Just seems a bit hypocritical. ‘Give a guy some warning.’” 

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Doug’s pretty sure he knows, because there’s something itching at the back of his mind like it’s important, but it feels like all of his thoughts are behind layers and layers of cotton.

Like he’s too pent up to sit still, Dylas is suddenly pacing the room, pawing at random things that are slightly out of place on the dresser. Something’s up— Dylas is never this organized, at least not with his own room.

Wait. Is this Dylas’ room?

“ _It means_ I thought y’said you were gonna come back.” His voice is gruff and irritated, but Doug knows well enough to hear something hidden beneath that— is he hurt? When Doug doesn’t offer anything up other than some blinking, Dylas tacks on, “It’s been more than a year.” 

Because he’s apparently never been able to resist poking an angry bear, Doug says, “I mean. I’m _here_ aren’t I?”

“Passed out on our doorstep doesn’t count.”

Doug feels his nerve twitch at how irritated Dylas sounds. Who gives him the right? “Will you cut me some slack, man? You don’t know my life.” 

“More than a _whole year,_ since you left,” Dylas continues, voice getting notably angrier, “without a single damn word from you. No visit, no letter, nothing in the fucking papers— I mean, shit man, if you wanted to disappear on your own that’s fine but you should’ve told me that first instead of promising anything so I wouldn’t have to—” he cuts himself off by turning around and shoving his hands into his hair, clutching at the purplish-blue strands and letting out a long, frustrated breath. The sound honestly reminds Doug of a noise that Thunderbolt would make.

In the following silence the unspoken words hang heavily in the air. _So I wouldn’t have to worry._

Doug… doesn’t know how to process that. He’s sure that if he wasn’t currently feverishly ill he’d have a better shot at it, though even that’s not guaranteed. He doesn’t know how to process how he feels about it either, since his own relationships with homes and promises and people waiting for him are complicated at best.

So he sticks with the easiest question he can think of.

“Where’s my horse?”

Slowly. Dylas turns back to look at him _slowly,_ raising a questioning brow like Doug might actually be certifiably out of his mind. At length, he says, “In the stable, fed and rested.” Dylas leans back against the wall, crossing his arms again and looking more tired than anything else. “She’s the reason you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere, probably. Galloped right up to the house and started neighing so loud we had to come down. You were slumped over her back, unconscious and burning up enough that I could probably cook an egg on you.”  
Doug smiles slightly at the way this man always seems to think about cooking. Or at least he thinks he smiles, because honestly Doug’s vision is starting to go black again and he’s not sure he has full control over his facial muscles. He manages to pull the blankets tighter around himself, fighting off the war of hot-versus-cold currently going on inside him.

“Dylas,” Doug finds himself mumbling, not entirely in control of his words either.

“Yeah?” Dylas’ voice is low but not unkind.

“‘M sorry.”

There’s a long pause, enough that Doug thinks he might have faded in and out of consciousness a few times in between, but eventually he registers Dylas replacing the towel on his forehead, mumbling something Doug can’t quite catch.

* * *

After almost a year at the ranch, it had turned out Dylas might be one of the few people on earth more competitive than Doug, which of course made them put their respective skills to the test: riding, weeding, tossing horseshoes, tending to animals— anything they could turn into a competition, they would. 

Sometimes visitors from town would join in— Frey and Forte were great at sparring, Kiel and Amber were wizards at re-organizing rooms, Dolce and Lest were good at harvesting crops quickly— and other times it would just be the two of them. Sometimes Doug would win, sometimes Dylas would. He’d tried to be annoyed about it, but being neck-in-neck made it more fun, somehow, since they could always pull up an excuse to try another competition. Someone eventually had to win, right?  
At some point Doug stopped keeping score. He suspected Dylas had, too.

Doesn’t mean he didn’t try to mess with the guy, though.

“Nah, nah,” Doug was saying one night, his back pressed to the inside of the barn wall and his shoulder brushing against Dylas’ as the two of them idly watched the chickens sleep. He motioned impatiently and Dylas grinned with an air of fake-annoyance, handing over the bottle of whiskey he had brought home from the market that day. “I’m definitely ahead of you, man. It’s 72 to 71. There’s no way you won that shearing contest last time.”

Doug took a long sip of the whiskey, enjoying the burn down his throat that was nothing compared to the way his chest was glowing with warmth.

“That’s because that wasn’t the last thing we did, idiot,” Dylas retorted. That insult might have stung when they first met, but now it passed between them as easily as the whiskey. If he didn’t know better Doug would have said it was almost Dylas’ way of showing affection, though he _did_ know better. “It was who could crack the most eggs the fastest at breakfast a few days ago.”

 _“What?”_ Doug’s cry was indignant. “Nuh-uh, no way. First, that was _two_ weeks ago, and second, I abso-fucking-lutely won that one.”

“No you didn’t.” Dylas made to grab the bottle of whiskey back, but Doug suddenly shot his hand far enough to hold it out of arm’s reach.

“Yeah, I did! I was way faster.” 

The grin that curled on Dylas’ lips was the kind that made Doug’s pulse quicken, looking bold, confident, and just a little bit dastardly. Dylas reached over for the bottle, long arm easily crossing the space across Doug’s chest, but Doug shot his hand up in response. 

“Yeah, but you got eggshells in your yolk.” Dylas retorted. “That’s a disqualifier.”

Doug had to turn his torso away to try and keep the whiskey still out of reach. Dylas was nearly climbing on top of him at this point, and Doug was laughing as he planted his hands against the man’s chest to try and keep Dylas off of him. Sure, Doug was strong, but Dylas was a solid warmth against his palms.

“Who doesn’t like a little crunch in their omelettes?” Even to his own ears Doug’s grin felt shit-eating, but he relished the way that Dylas rolled his eyes and snorted, just too fond to be rude.

Clearly trying and failing to fight off a laugh, Dylas responded “That’s gross, man,” before he maneuvered himself to pin one of Doug’s wrists against the floor, stretching his other arm over Doug’s head to reach for the bottle. The long strands of his hair tickled Doug’s face, and then both of them were laughing together.

“Stop it—” Doug was trying hard to breathe in between his laughter.

“It’s my— _hah—_ damn whiskey!”

“Yeah but you— _gave_ it to me! Didn’t y’ever learn it’s impolite to take back a gift?”

Doug glanced up at where Dylas was still trying to reach over him, expecting to see a smile on his face, or put-upon annoyance. Instead his face was way closer than Doug had anticipated, and Dylas’ expression suddenly looked more serious than he had ever seen it. Or, well, a different kind of serious. Doug’s breath stopped. 

His vision was swimming in Dylas, in his nose littered with freckles from all the time spent in the sun around the farm, in the hard line of his jaw contrasted against the soft strands of lavender hair that fell over his face, in the studying look in Dylas’ yellow eyes.

“It’s my whiskey,” Dylas murmured then, not reaching for the bottle anymore but also not making any move to back away. 

“Then take some,” Doug said with a streak of boldness, because damn he’s never really done what’s good for him, has he? 

Doug tilted his chin up and Dylas followed downwards, frustratingly slowly to the point that Doug was about to complain until their lips suddenly touched and everything else fell away from him.

_Oh._

The air felt warm around them despite the fact that the days were getting colder, and it was a miracle that Doug set the whiskey down instead of dropping the bottle with a crash the second his brain stopped functioning. All he could focus on was Dylas, annoying, difficult, secretly sweet-and-hilarious-actually Dylas: the slow, soft feeling of his lips on Doug’s rough ones, the way his shoulders felt when Doug wrapped his free hand around them, the calluses on his hands as he let go of Doug’s wrist to cup Doug’s neck and cheek. 

Their noses brushed against each other as they shifted, lips still dragging tentatively against each other, and then Doug had a thought that went something along the lines of _holy shit_ and the embers that were in him kindled to life until they were warm and glowing like a fireplace. Suddenly he moved his free hand to fist the light fabric of Dylas’s flannel button down in between his fingers, pulling him closer.

A noise of both surprise and pleasure came out of Dylas before his arm circled around Doug’s waist like a lasso, his other hand cupping Doug’s face like it was the only thing tethering him to this barn, this late summer night, this scattering of hay beneath them. 

Their lips fit against each other fervently, Dylas pulling at Doug’s lower lip with his teeth in a slightly rough way that drove Doug nearly crazy. He groaned against Dylas’ lips and pressed forward, until Dylas was almost leaning back against the wall, their chests sliding together and neither of them once breaking the kiss. 

Doug could taste the whiskey on his own lips come back to him through Dylas, could feel the heat and sweat prickling under his clothes, and...

They pulled apart, not too far but just enough that Dylas’ face wasn’t blurry anymore in Doug’s field of sight. They were both breathing heavily, and Doug was more than a little dazed, but then Dylas put the bottle of whiskey to his lips, his eyelids closing as he drank from it and his throat bobbing with the motion.

Doug blinked, blush still high on his cheeks and probably bright enough to match his hair. His thoughts moved at a turtle’s pace.

“When did you—”

Dylas grinned, casual and teasing and absolutely breathtaking, as he lowered his hand to rest the bottle against his thigh. “Not my fault you weren’t paying attention.”

Then, like his own words finally caught up to him, Dylas’ expression shifted to shy, scratching at his scarred cheek with his free hand. God, what an idiot. What an _adorable_ idiot. Couldn’t the guy pick between flirting or being flustered?

Doug laughed, a breathy, soft chuckle, and after lightly shoving them once he leaned his head against Dylas’ shoulders. Dylas laughed too, a little awkward but more carefree than Doug had ever heard him.

After a few moments passed and a calm silence settled between them, he glanced up to see Dylas take another sip from the mouth of the bottle, long and slow like it wasn’t the whiskey he was trying to savor, before pressing it into Doug’s hands.

* * *

It takes about two or three days of being in and out of consciousness for Doug’s fever to finally break. 

Even after that he spends most of his time in bed, and eventually every person of the tiny town of Selphia comes by the farm house to visit him. Some come in groups, some come alone, but all of them have just about the same message— it’s good to see him again. They were worried. They hope he sticks around. 

Doug’s still not sure how to feel about it all, about how _good_ he also feels to see them: laughing as he hears stories of Vishnal’s cooking disasters, throwing one of his pillows at Leon for making a lewd comment, catching up with Xiao Pai as she shares the strangest of her interactions with customers. Doug wonders when he stopped feeling like one of those customers about Selphia— someone who stopped at a place just to leave again, who got small bits and pieces of so many places around the world but never stuck around long enough to learn.

The last time he had felt this way was his family home, which was long gone by now.

Yeah, he’s not sure how to feel about it. But he acknowledges that he’s _feeling_ it, at least, these emotions he can’t quite name yet. He decides to keep staying in the moment.

There’s one day in particular that’s a testament to this.

Doug slides his feet off the bed, wrapping a shawl around his shoulders and slipping into some slippers when there’s a knock.

“Yeah?”

Doug stands, opening the door to his current room— which he learned at one point is an extra guest room that had been built in the main house while Doug was away.

“Oh!” Porcoline blinks at Doug in the doorway. “I didn’t expect to see you up and about so soon!”

Doug can’t help the slightly wry smile on his face. “It’s been days, I’m starting to get restless. I’m used to moving around a lot.”

With a warm laugh, the chef walks into the room, holding a full meal tray. “Ah well, I hope this tempura bowl made specially by _moi_ might soothe your restless soul.”

Something in Doug does a flip. From the year he was away, he never found food better than Porcoline’s stuff. Damn, Doug’s going soft. Still… 

“Oh, that’s sweet but I was gonna go for a wa— wait.” The smell belatedly hit’s Doug’s nose, and he’s staring at the platter with renewed interest. “Tempura bowl?”

Porcoline smiles widely, gesturing at the bed. “Yes! Now sit, sit.” His voice is sing-song-y. “I know you’re restless but I brought this in a special tray just so you can eat it in bed.”

Doug, never one to pass up an opportunity for home cooking, is immediately shoving his slippers off and slipping back into bed. 

“Fuck yeah, I can’t remember the last time I had breakfast in bed. Or, uh,” he glances out the window. “Lunch?”

He thinks the pointed look he gets might be for his language, but Porcoline doesn’t comment on anything as he sets the dray across Doug’s lap. 

He’s digging into the dish in seconds, happily cramming the shrimp into his mouth with his chopsticks, when he realizes he’s being watched. Mouth full of food, Doug glances up to see Porcoline pull up a chair to Doug’s bedside.

“Thaf fer—” Doug swallows around a particularly big bite and starts again. “Sorry. Thanks for uh, doing all this. I appreciate it.”

Porcoline’s smile is kind. Way too kind, that level of genuine altruism that the man always shows making Doug want to avert his eyes. He’s not sure he deserves to be looked at like this, especially not after the way he left. Or rather, the way he didn’t— took forever to? Shit it’s complicated— come back. 

“Of course. I’m happy to see you’ve returned.”

Unsure what to do when met with such open familial affection, Doug just settles for ignoring his blush and cramming more food into his mouth. 

A warm laugh from Porcoline draws Doug’s eyes back to him. “Though I think what I’ve missed most of all is seeing the vigor with which you eat food! That _joie de vivre_ you have for rice is unparalleled.”

Doug laughs, slightly awkward but feeling warm inside. “Yeah, well… Rice is good sh— uh, good stuff.”

“I’m also not the only one who missed you, you know.” There’s a lilt to Porcoline’s voice, almost like he’s trying to make the conversation seem less serious than it would be. Doug wonders if that’s for his own benefit. “So many people would ask about you when they visited. Amber, Lin Fa, Volkanon, Vishnal, Meg. ‘Has our Douggie come round yet?’ And I’d have to answer ‘alas, he hasn’t, but I have faith he will return!’”

From anyone else Porcoline’s dramatic reenactment would have annoyed Doug, but from him it feels more like he’s trying to make Doug laugh, or trying to make sure Doug doesn’t feel guilty (which he does. He wishes he didn’t).

“And,” Porcoline continues, when Doug doesn't respond, “Most of all, Blossom asked about you quite often.”

Doug lets out a noise of affirmation. Then, with a sigh, a breath of bravery, and a heavy touch of internal pettiness, he decides he’s sick and tired of not being honest.

“Yeah,” he starts, voice a little soft as he plays around with his chopsticks. “Honestly? I missed her too. Didn’t… I didn’t expect to get along with people here so well. I think that’s why I stayed away for so long. It freaked me out.” Once the honesty comes it all pours out at once, into the kind, accepting gaze of Porcoline, that Doug knows is representative of probably everyone in this stupidly nice town. “It’s like, the more people you have, the more people you can lose, y’know?”

The silence that stretches out after that is a surprisingly comfortable one. Porcoline, who has always enjoyed sharing meals, stares at the fireplace that Doug had at one point finally wheedled Dylas into kindling. Then, after a few minutes of Doug’s aggressive slurping— the food was still damn good— Porcoline looks back over at the bed. His voice is more serious than Doug had ever heard it, but not any less kind.

“Leaving is fine as long as you know you have a place to come back to.” There’s another pause as Doug considers his words. “Speaking of,” Porco’s voice turns sing-songy again, “I hear Blossom has been looking for someone to help her with things around her store. She recently expanded it, and apparently it’s become much too much for her to manage alone! If you’re interested, I’d go speak to her.”

_A place to come back to._

The words stick in Doug’s mind, and he feels like they won’t be going anywhere any time soon.

“And,” Porcoline stands from his chair, heading towards the door. “There’s no need to be formal you know! Please, feel free to call me Porco.”

Doug can hear the implicit words behind that sentiment. _You’re family. You’re part of this town._

And for once, it doesn’t freak him out.

* * *

Doug sat atop his horse, just outside the gate that led to Porcoline’s ranch. He could feel the light drops of rain start to catch on the brim of his riding hat. _Why was it always raining at times like these?_

Everyone else had said their last goodbyes indoors, but Dylas stood before him now, squinting up at Doug with a gas lantern in his hand that might go out if the weather got any heavier. 

“Bye, Thunderbolt.” Dylas stroked the mare’s dark mane with a gently fond look on his face. “Don’t let the cowboy mistreat you too much.”

“Hey,” Doug said, with a level of playfulness that he didn’t quite feel. “I treat her just fine.”

“Sure ya’ do.”

The ensuing silence hung heavily between them, like the rain around them. Part of Doug hoped that the damn lantern _would_ go out, just to spare him from having to look at Dylas’ face. Since when had the guy become so expressive? Or, honestly, the real question to ask would probably be, since when had Doug gotten so good at reading him? Because Dylas was stoic and sullen as always, one hand shoved into his pocket and shoulders hunched slightly against the rain. But Doug saw the slight furrow in his right brow, the one that always twitched when he was upset more than angry, and he could also see the tense line of his jaw, the vein in the man’s throat as he looked up, and Doug knew this was gonna hurt. Shit.

Summoning the courage he didn’t feel, Doug cleared his throat and tipped his hat slightly. “I’ll be going then. Not sure where, but I think I’m gonna keep traveling West until I hit the coast.”

He figured that he’d been playing the role of lone ranger long enough that he could slip back into it, for now— even if Selphia had stripped that persona bare, leaving just the raw, ugly, honest part of Doug that wanted to settle in. But roots could rot, or burn, or be ripped out, and Doug refused to feel the earth torn from him again, so he was leaving.

He was leaving.

This should be easy. It was easy a hundred times before. The rain kept on falling, picking up speed, but the lantern glowed faithfully.

Dylas nodded, the movement tense and slightly jerky. “Mm. Yeah. Will be about a three week’s trip by horse. There should be a fair ‘mount of inns along the way, according to a bunch of tourists at the restaurant.”

Right. Tourists, inns, unknown cities. Back to all of that, to sunrises in rooms he didn’t leave himself enough time to recognize.

“Right. Thanks.” Doug rubbed his palms against his chaps, then ran his fingers through Thunderbolt’s mane. “Uh— th-thanks for treating Nessie so well while we were here. I appreciate it.”

The corner of Dylas’ lip tugged up, in a grin that wasn’t big enough to crease the dimple Doug had come to recognize in his cheek. “I thought she preferred to be called Thunderbolt.”

Doug huffed out a laugh. “By others, sure. I’m special.”

They both stood (or, well, Doug _sat,_ but anyway) another few seconds there, staring at each other. Doug wasn’t not sure what was heavier— the increasing pressure of the rain, or the words hanging between them. He adjusted his grip on the reins, bounced his fingers off the scratchy texture of the rope, rolled back his shoulders— and he focused on Dylas. 

Dylas, the ill-tempered farmhand with an angry set to his face and rough, scarred hands. Dylas whose burn marks came from kitchen accidents, so unlike Doug’s. Dylas who was so damn competitive and snappy. But also… Dylas who secretly polished all of Porcoline’s favorite silverware regularly, and Dylas, whose genuine smile was breathtaking and cliche in all the way Doug had always thought was too cheesy, but now was so damn true. Dylas, who was instantly nicer to every horse he meets before people, Dylas, who loved laying in the grass at night and staring at the stars, Dylas, whose kiss tasted like whiskey, and thyme, and wanderlust, but also like a fresh breeze rolling from a warm kitchen.

And because he just couldn’t help it, had never been able to help it, Doug thought of himself _around_ Dylas— thought of all the random little skills he’d picked up over the past year and a half from their competitions. Of the way he felt while showing off his horse-riding skills in front of Dylas, or while retelling stories of his adventures across the country. Then there was the way Doug’s smile was too quick to rise to his lips around the man, even between their arguments. Or the feeling of grass beneath his back as he fell back against it in a wrestling match, of his wrists underneath Dylas’ hands, of his lips…

Doug thought of home. And then he thought of fire. 

He had to go. 

He waved two fingers in parting, and Dylas shot the same motion back. Then Doug stirred his mare, and they were off, slowly making their way down the dirt road beneath them.

And then, before he could lose his nerve— or maybe before he could get it back— Doug turned in his saddle and called out to Dylas, _who was still there,_ “I’ll come back!” He could see the way Dylas tensed, taught like a bowstring even from here, as if trying to hold everything back. So Doug yelled again, “I swear! You’ll see me again.”

And underneath the light pattering of rain, Dylas nodded, the rigid line of his shoulders easing.

* * *

Other than the distant sound of one particularly loud owl, the night is quiet. Moonlight filters easily through the blinds that Doug left open— as much as he loves sleeping in, he’s going to let the sun wake him up tomorrow, since he’s going to go into town, and… 

Well, he has plans. 

The thought of said plans makes him nervous in a way that being stuck in the middle of a robbery, or a shoot-out, or an absolute beast of a thunderstorm while on horseback _don’t,_ and honestly Doug’s not sure what that says about him. He’s not sure he entirely cares either. What he really wants right now is to fall asleep, not to be staring up at the ceiling and counting every single crevice in the wood boards. To top it all off, even being deeply rolled inside of a protective layer of thick sheets wasn’t enough to fight off the early-Autumn chill.

Fuck.

With a groan Doug shoves all of the blankets off of him, pushes his feet into his slippers, and crouches over by the fireplace. Now being in just his nightclothes, Doug is aggressively shivering by the time he arranges the wood and puts fistfulls of hay in as kindling, so it’s with little grace that he shoves the small box open containing the flint, steel, and torn up roll of newspapers. But then his hands are trembling so much that he can’t manage to strike the steel hard or accurately enough. 

Doug hasn’t actually been a fan of fire for quite a few years now, so after some frustrating minutes and a few times of the sparks getting too close to Doug’s skin for comfort, he drops it all onto the floor with a sigh and an annoyed groan.

A noise unexpectedly comes from behind his door, like a throat clearing, and then an “Are you alright in there?” from a very familiar voice.

Doug stands up with a groan from the uncomfortable position he had been squatting in.

“Yeah, ‘m fine, just can’t get this—” he grumbles as he walks to the door, though his voice goes softer when he looks up to see Dylas, with tousled hair and a rumpled night robe, standing in the frame. “... Damn fireplace to light up.”

Dylas rolls his eyes, but in that way of his that’s so blatantly affectionate that it makes Doug have to fight off a blush.

“I got it,” Dylas mumbles, easily stepping into the room and squatting by the fireplace. Doug, not entirely sure what to do, closes the door and moves to hover by Dylas. He keeps his hands shoved into his pockets to try and fight off the cold as he watches Dylas rearrange some of the untouched kindling. 

Dylas is about to start striking the flint against the steel when he notices Doug’s uncomfortable silence, and pauses to glance up at him. Doug tries not to wilt at the way Dylas looks him over, gaze trailing over his throat and down his hands. It’s not that Dylas hadn’t looked at him like that before, but there was something new to the gaze now. Fondness? Maybe it’s something new in Doug— the knowledge that this won’t be the last time he’ll see that expression. That he might get to see it for a long time to come.

With a chuckle falling between his lips in a small huff, Dylas raises an eyebrow. “I almost forgot how bad you are with Fall and Winter shit.”

“Tch,” Doug scoffs, but he’s fighting off a grin, cheeks already warm in a giddy sort of way. “Hey man, just ‘cause you hate sleeping in hot weather doesn’t mean all of us have to be cold weather freaks.”

That slightly dastardly grin curls onto Dylas’ lips, and Doug’s heart starts racing— since when had Dylas looked so carefree? So… happy? 

Since when had Doug felt the same? 

“Alright, if I’m a freak then I guess I don’t have to light the—” Still, there was a lingering nervous energy to Dylas, even as he stands and shrugs with what was clearly his best attempt at a nonchalant expression. He moves as if to leave, and Doug immediately reaches out to catch Dylas’ wrist. 

He feels Dylas tense, and even in the low lighting can see the blush that starts to creep up Dylas’ face as he turns to look over his shoulder at Doug.

Doug swallows. “Don’t— just—” when Dylas makes no move to budge, Doug lets out a slightly frustrated noise, trying to sound casual. “Just light the fireplace, please? Before I freeze myself half to death? You just spent all that effort nursing me back to health, you don’t want that to go to waste, right?”

Dylas’ eyes go wide as his cheeks go furiously red; Doug’s still trembling, partly from the cold but also from the rush of making Dylas flustered.

“Ugh— _you—”_ Muttering something under his breath, Dylas shoves past Doug to go back to the fireplace, quickly picking up the flint and steel again. Focused on making sure his sparks land on the kindling, Dylas doesn’t look up as he says “Just, get in bed already. You’re trembling like a damn puppy in the rain and it’s making me feel bad.”

Now Doug is the one grinning, and as he takes his slippers off and starts to climb back into bed— never one to turn down an offer for warmth— he shoots back, “Aw, I didn’t know you had feelings. Though, actually, I might be the one to lose feeling completely if my toes don’t warm up soon.”

With a full circle it’s now Dylas’ turn to scoff, because honestly both of them know neither of those statements are true. Doug can hear when the fireplace crackles to life with a moderate, steady flame, and for one of the few times in recent years Doug thinks the sound is almost comforting.

“You’re being dramatic,” Dylas comes to stand by the edge of Doug’s bed, eyes trailing down the length of blankets and probably realizing that he had gotten a few extra from a very generous Porco. Maybe it isn’t the fire’s presence that’s comforting.

“I’m not! It’s fucking freezing!”

The moonlight plays tricks on Dylas’ hair, lighting it up to an almost silver-y color, like the sheen of a pistol. 

Doug has so many things he wants to say but they’re all lodged in his throat.

 _“Still?_ ” Dylas says exasperatedly. “You’ve got the fire, those long clothes, the blankets. What _else_ could you possibly need?”

“Body heat,” Doug blurts on an impulse. 

Dylas’ expression goes slack. “Wha—”

Before Doug can actually think this through (because holy fuck what is he thinking) he shoots his hand out to grasp at Dylas’ wrist and tugs him just slightly so he can look up into his face. 

He’s blushing, and probably sounds more annoyed and flustered than the totally-cool-and-suave-cowboy-voice that he’s going for, but regardless Doug spouts, “Get in here with me and warm me up, with your stupid lanky limbs.”

He watches as Dylas blinks furiously, eyebrows furrowing and un-furrowing like he’s trying to fully parse Doug’s meaning. Dylas’ blush deepens, and he looks frustrated, so Doug’s pretty sure the guy’s about to tell him he’s an idiot and bolt out the door (which, fair), when Dylas suddenly shoves off his socks and is gathering up some of the blankets.

“Alright,” he says somewhat harshly, but the sheepish look in his eyes cancels it out. “Move over, then.”

There’s an impossibly long second where Doug, partly in shock, has a sense of deja vu, but before he can dwell too much on it everything catches back up to him at locomotive speed. “Right! Right— let me just—” 

Unrolling himself from his mass of blankets and making it to the other side as Dylas clambers into bed beside him takes a few moments, but when it’s done the silence that follows is _worse._ They’re both laying on their sides, facing each other, and at almost the exact same moment they flop over onto their backs. Doug can’t actually see it but he’s pretty sure Dylas is blushing too. Except Doug is a cool rugged traveler who goes through the countryside on horseback so obviously _he’s_ not blushing, it’s just the weird temperature mix between the fireplace and the lingering cold in his body. Obviously.

Shit. Why is it still cold?  
Dylas seems to notice too, tilting his head to look over at Doug, who’s desperately hoping that his face looks more casual than how he feels— like a dam about to burst. 

“You’re still cold?” Dylas asks, pushing away a long strand of hair that had fallen over his cheek. His voice is slightly puzzled but Doug can hear the care behind it as Dylas tentatively wraps an arm around Doug’s shoulders. There’s still a large space between them, enough that Dylas’ face isn’t blurry in Doug’s vision, but the man’s arm crosses that gap and rests on Doug easily. The warmth seeps through Doug’s long-sleeved pajamas just at the simple contact.

“Is, uh—” Dylas clears his throat slightly. “This alright?”

“Uh— yeah. Thanks.”

The room actually is warming, though that’s probably because the fireplace is finally doing its damn job. Still, Doug’s not gonna say anything to break the touch. Actually, he’s got a lot to say— or maybe not that much, but it’s all tangled up like tumbleweed or loose yarn, and he’s not sure where to find the place to start.

But Dylas, not the most conversational person Doug’s ever met, just sits there quietly, fingers playing absently with the fabric at the collar of Doug’s shirt. 

He’s gonna have to start this himself. That’s fine, first steps and all.

“I’m, uh.” Great start. Instead of summoning up the lone ranger persona he always leans on when he needs confidence, Doug decides to just let it go completely as he continues, “I heard Blossom was looking for help at the general store, so I was thinking of offering. I still have to go into town tomorrow to talk to her about it but, yeah.” 

He can’t help but study Dylas, who’s once again blinking over his words. Doug also can’t help but vaguely wonder since when either of them had actually started thinking over things before saying them, instead of just blurting them out. 

“Oh,” Dylas finally says. “That’s good.”

“Just good?” Doug’s voice is teasing but he himself can hear the nervous edge behind it.

When Dylas moves his hand from Doug to scratch the back of his own neck, smile slightly wry, Doug is surprised that he has to stop himself from huffing at the loss of contact. He really has gone soft.

“No, uh, I mean it’s great,” Dylas adds, still scratching his neck. “It’s just unexpected. Does that mean you’re sticking around?”

It’s Doug’s time to think his response over, eyes focused on the strands of hair on Dylas’ robe. 

“Yeah, I think it does. Not forever, though. There’s still plenty of places I want to see, so I’m gonna keep travelling at one point.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

Doug glances up at the slight disappointment he can hear in Dylas’ voice, but he’s surprised to see a small, genuine smile on Dylas’ lips. 

“But, uh, well.” Here’s the hard part, as if this whole conversation itself wasn’t miles from what Doug was used to having, didn’t make him want to unzip his skin and crawl out of it. And still, below the discomfort is something tender and slightly awkward, the nervous joy that comes with being honest. Doug assumes. This is still kinda new to him, at least since he lost his family. “Porco said something to me. That travelling is good and all, as long as you know you ‘always have a place to come back to.’ That really got me thinking.”

Doug continues with a breath of a laugh, flopping onto his back and suddenly finding the way the moonlight plays with the texture of the ceiling _very_ interesting. He tries to grin away his nerves, forces some levity into his tone. “I mean, all this ‘lone wolf’ stuff gets pretty boring, y’know? Been doing it for a few years now and it’s just become routine, and man do I _hate_ routine. Sooo boring. So I thought I’d give this whole, uh,” he makes a vague hand gesture in the air, “‘home’ thing a try. Travel for a month, then come back, then set out when I feel like it again.”

Dylas, the bastard, doesn’t say anything, but Doug can feel the weight of those amber eyes on him. It makes Doug need to suppress a semi-hysterical laugh.

“So maybe, if you want, since you said you’ve never really travelled before, I can take you with me? Not, like, every time, if you don’t want to, but just whenever you feel like it.” Doug is rambling. God, why won’t Dylas say anything? “And anywhere you wanna go, too, world’s our oyster and all that crap.”

The silence continues, and Doug realizes belatedly that he’s started sweating. He almost misses when the room was freezing. Almost.

He glances over at Dylas, just as the farmhand finally says (slowly, so slowly, like a shoe he’s polishing down to the very rubber sole), “Anywhere?”

Doug turns over with renewed energy, hands punctuating his points. “Uh, yeah! Well, almost anywhere. Actually there’s, like, two specific towns I’m not allowed to go back to because of some… legal complications, but if you really wanna see them you can just, like, walk there while I camp out a bit further away? But there’s tons of cool shit you haven’t seen, right? The mountains to the North are awesome, and deserts can be dangerous but have some of the coolest wildlife.”

Though the rest of his expression remains even, Dylas’ eyes start to actually _sparkle._ Doug’s not sure he’s ever seen him so excited.

“I’ve never seen the ocean.”

“Oh!” The smile easily lights onto Doug’s face. “Right, shit I forgot how much bigger this country is. Back home— _home, home_ — it’s an absolute maximum of a five-day trip to the ocean from anywhere. And it’s a total must, you’ll never believe how big it is. Plus you like to fish, right? I bet sea fish are way different from the stuff you catch in ponds and rivers.”

“Yeah! Actually Arthur’s gotten me a few books on fishing for my birthdays and stuff, and apparently there’re thousands of species of saltwater fish, with—”

Dylas continues on with nearly-boyish excitement as he gives detailed accounts of what ocean fish are like, how long they can be, and so forth, and Doug (who would usually rather sell his left arm than go fishing for more than two hours), actually finds himself interested. Maybe it’s the expressiveness of Dylas’ face, or the absolutely _adorable_ dorkiness of his voice as he elaborates on any questions Doug asks, but it’s both entertaining and soothing. 

At some point between the aquatic facts and the travel plans they both start to drift off, Doug’s head drooping to rest on Dylas’ chest and Dylas’ legs entangling themselves with Doug’s. 

Like always Dylas is a solid, warm presence next to him, with the steady line of his shoulders, the loose embrace of his arms, and the smoothness of where Doug’s chin scratches the patch of Dylas’s chest peaking out of his robe. Winter might as well not come this year as Doug falls asleep comfortably to the sound of Dylas’ even breathing.

(Even the sun doesn’t manage to wake Doug up the next morning, so the two of them have a pretty late start to their morning, but somehow Doug doesn’t think Blossom will mind if he goes into town in the afternoon instead of morning. Doug won’t mind either, especially when Dylas’ arms circle his middle, with nothing but Thunderbolt beneath them and Selphia’s quaint buildings coming up in front of them). 


End file.
